


The Case of the Smiling Scientists

by tigs



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2052798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigs/pseuds/tigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew something was going on, though, when Kavanagh came up to him in the hallway, said, "Wonderful day, isn’t it, Colonel?" and actually looked as if he meant it. [McKay/Sheppard. PG.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Smiling Scientists

John first grew suspicious the moment he saw the—dare he say it?— _peaceful_ smile on Kavanagh’s face. It was a nearly beatific expression, John thought, ruined only by the fact that the other man looked like the cat who’d swallowed the cream. So much so, in fact, that if he’d had whiskers, John very much could have pictured him licking them. 

He _knew_ something was going on, though, when Kavanagh came up to him in the hallway, said, "Wonderful day, isn’t it, Colonel?" and actually looked as if he meant it. 

As the other man walked away again, John couldn’t help but stare after him, probably with a slack look on his face, blinking stupidly; he didn’t even notice Teyla coming down the hall from the other direction until she stopped next to him and said, "Is everything all right, Colonel?" 

"Yeah," he said, slowly turning to look at her. "Yeah, everything’s fine." 

She nodded, but she didn’t look convinced, so he asked her if she had time to go a round or five with him in the gym. If there was one thing that he could count on to set his world to rights, after all, it was having her wipe the floor with him in a battle of the sticks. 

She agreed, smiling.  


* * *

  
That night, as John was getting ready for bed,  
he asked Rodney, "Is Kavanagh getting laid?"

Rodney, who had been in the bathroom brushing his teeth, spat his mouthful of toothpaste all over the bathroom mirror; John could hear it. Then he stomped back out into the main room, his toothbrush held like a dagger in one hand, while he used the other to wipe the white foam from his chin. 

" _Excuse me?_ " he asked in a strangled voice. Then, "Jesus, Sheppard. Give a man some warning, will you? I’m going to have to go scrub my brain out with _bleach_ now, thank you very much." He paused, started to turn back to the bathroom, then stopped and turned towards John again, looking genuinely indignant. "Also, what the hell sort of question _is_ that?" 

"A perfectly reasonable one," John answered. "He actually smiled at me in the hallway today. Told me that it was a wonderful day. You have to admit that that’s not normal." 

"No, no, you’re right," Rodney said too quickly, and it could have been because he was standing in a swath of artificial light from the bathroom, but John thought he went a bit pale. Then there was a moment where his mouth was open, but he wasn’t saying anything, and John had known Rodney long enough now to know when he was trying to think up a plausible excuse. Something, apparently, that didn’t involve Kavanagh getting laid. He didn’t seem to be able to think of anything, though, given that a moment later he stuck his toothbrush firmly back in his mouth. 

"I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for his doing that," he continued, speaking around the brush, his voice garbled. "Something that doesn’t involve me needing a _bottle of bleach_ and therapy for the _next ten years_. I’m sure that there’s absolutely nothing to worry about." 

John also knew Rodney well enough by now to know that that was pretty much McKay-speak for ‘yes, I know exactly what’s going on, but I can’t tell you.’ He pretty much confirmed it, as far as John was concerned, when he said, "Nothing to worry about," again and then stepped back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

John stared at the door for a moment, then lay back down on the bed, focusing his gaze on the ceiling above him, thinking. About Kavanagh, about Rodney, and what it was that they would _both_ be involved with. And then, because he prided himself on being an ‘in touch’ commander, he decided that really, the next day, he should probably start paying attention to the rest of the scientists, too.  


* * *

  
Day two, and John staked out a table in the middle  
of the dining hall, just at the edge of the normal divide between the  
scientists  
and the soldiers, facing the scientists. Ten minutes (or, one slice of  
bread eaten very slowly) later, Elizabeth joined him.

"This isn’t your usual spot," she said, putting her tray down on his table next to his own, pulling out the chair beside his. She sat, glanced over at him, and then, because she was an in touch commander, too, her next question was: "Is there something going on that I should know about?" 

First, John shook his head, then he nodded, and then, just because he wanted to be _clear_ , he shrugged. "Have you noticed anything going on with the scientists?" he asked finally, and he _felt_ Elizabeth look at him, even if he didn’t turn to meet her inquiring gaze—he didn’t want to miss anything, after all. 

"Have I noticed anything going on with the scientists," she repeated. "Care to give me a definition of what sorts of anything we might be talking about?" 

Again, John shrugged. "I don’t know. Have they just seemed… _happier_ to you? Like, they’re smiling more?" 

When Elizabeth didn’t speak for several seconds, maybe ten, John finally dared a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at him still, a bite of whatever it was that the cooks had decided to serve speared on a fork that was halfway to her mouth. 

"You’re worried because the scientists seem happier," she said, in such a tone that John was pretty sure that the next thing out of her mouth was going to include the words ‘appointment with Heightmeyer’. 

He put his second slice of mutilated bread down on his plate and turned to face her. "Listen, yesterday, Kavanagh said _hello_ to me when he passed me in the hallway. If it had just been him, I’d probably chalk it up to a freak Kavanagh thing, but last night, when I mentioned it to Rodney, well. McKay knows something. He tried to pretend that he didn’t, tried to make an excuse for Kavanagh’s behavior—which he couldn’t, I might as well add—but it was all very suspicious. And if you look over at the scientists’ tables now, you can very clearly see that they’re talking about me." 

Now Elizabeth was looking mostly amused, the corners of her lips twitching, but also as if she might, possibly, think that John had a point. Dutifully, she turned back in the direction that she and John were facing, and the timing couldn’t have been better for John’s case, because Simpson was leaning towards Miko, saying something to the other woman behind a cupped hand, and then they both turned to stare at John. 

"Hmm," Elizabeth said, as John looked at her, wanting to say, _see, see?_ "Well, you’re right about them talking about you, at least. That much is obvious." 

"And why would they be doing that unless I was on the right track?" John asked. "Unless I got Rodney worried last night? And he, in turn, spilled that I _know_ something?" 

Now Elizabeth laughed. She stared at Simpson and Miko, and also Johnson, who had leaned over to talk to them, too, and then she turned to John. "It’s obviously very serious, whatever it is that they’re hiding. Very important. And after seeing this overwhelming amount of evidence, I think that you’re right: it does merit further investigation." 

"Yes, ma’am," John said.  


* * *

  
That night, as Rodney was in the act of crawling  
into bed, John rolled over onto his side and said, "You know, you could  
just save yourself a lot of trouble by telling me what it is, exactly,  
that all of you scientists are hiding."

Again, Rodney paused, this time, with both body and mouth. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said after a moment, his voice too carefully even for it to be the truth. 

"Sure you do," John said cheerfully. "And I’m going to find out exactly what it is. Also, you might want to tell the rest of your scientists that if they’re trying to belay my suspicions about their activities, they might not want to do the whole whisper about me behind their hands thing while I’m sitting right there. _With Elizabeth_." 

Before Rodney could even attempt to come up with an answer to that, and also before John could let himself enjoy the rather stricken look on Rodney’s face, he rolled over again and thought ‘off’ at the lights. 

"Goodnight, dear," he said sweetly, but the only response he got to that was Rodney ‘humphing’ as he rolled over onto his side, so that his back was to John, and also a none-too-gentle jerk of the sheets upward as he settled into bed.  


* * *

  
The third day, John truly began Operation Find  
Out What The Hell Is Going On (Operation WTH for short).

It was easy, actually. First, all he had to do was assign himself the lab patrol, and because he was a conscientious soldier, he took a walk down the hallway where Rodney’s lab was located every forty-five minutes. He peered in the window of every door, took a good look around—just to make sure that everything was going smoothly, of course. To make sure that no dangerous pieces of Ancient Technology had been activated. That nothing was on the verge of blowing up. That sort of thing. 

Then, because luck was with him, Lorne actually sought him out down there to talk about the major’s upcoming trip off world, and that gave John an excuse to stop _right outside_ Rodney’s doorway for a good twenty minutes, looking into the lab the entire time. 

Lorne didn’t seem to suspect that anything was up, but Rodney’s scientists sure did. There was more talking about him—he could tell, even if he couldn’t hear the words—more staring. Then, Rodney came to the door himself and _glared_ at John, but John just smiled and waved, and finally Rodney stomped off, looking as annoyed as John had seen him in awhile. 

After that, because there was only _so far_ it was wise to push Rodney in a single day, he turned to Lorne and said, "Walk with me, Major." 

They walked, they talked, and if he let two hours go by before he walked by the labs again, well, it was because he really _did_ have other things that needed his attention, too.  


* * *

  
That night, John was already in bed by the time  
Rodney returned from the lab. The lights were out, and Rodney was only  
a shadow, a silhouette illuminated by the dim lights of the hallway  
outside  
their room, filtering in through the open doorway.

John tried to pretend that he’d been sleeping, that Rodney had woken him up, so he raised his head slowly, blinking owlishly at the other man. "Wha’ time is it?" he asked, purposely slurring his words just a bit. 

He didn’t need to have the lights on to know that Rodney was rolling his eyes at him, though, or that Rodney wasn’t buying his supposed sleepiness for a moment. Even after the door closed, he could see that Rodney’s arms were crossed over his chest, and if it hadn’t been the middle of the night, he probably would have been tapping his foot, too. 

"Oh, give it up, Colonel," Rodney said, and that was how John knew he was really in the doghouse. He listened as Rodney stomped across their room, dropping clothes as he went. As he brushed his teeth with more force than was necessary to get rid of even the most stubborn plaque. As he came more slowly towards the bed, then flipped back the covers and lay down next to John, his body stiff. 

"You’d think they’d at least teach you _stealth_ in that military of yours," Rodney said after a few moments of tense silence. "Or maybe I should say _subtlety_ , since I’ve seen you in stealth mode and know you can actually do it." 

"Thank you," John said. 

"I’m _not_ complimenting you," Rodney said, but his voice was a bit softer, a bit more pliable than it had been when he’d come in. 

"It was hidden in there somewhere," John said. "You just don’t like it when I use my powers of good against you." 

" _Powers of good?_ Please. Tell me another one," Rodney said. Then, maybe because he knew that there was no use hiding the fact that something actually _was_ going on, he said, more softly, "You aren’t going to find anything, you know. And it’s really, really not something you need to be concerning yourself with." 

"But you’ve already got my interest piqued," John said. "And you, of all people, should know how impossible it is to let a good mystery go unsolved." 

Beside him, Rodney sighed, and rolled over onto his side again, away from John. When John curled up behind him, though, and dropped an arm over Rodney’s waist, he didn’t pull away.  


* * *

  
On the fourth day, after he’d passed by two more  
scientists with smiles on their faces that they just couldn’t hide,  
John  
thought that maybe Rodney was right. Maybe, since he was, admittedly,  
going  
up against the smartest people in the galaxy, he _did_ need to  
employ  
stealth tactics.

Maybe, he thought, what he _really_ needed to do was lull them into a false sense of security. 

So, he dropped it. 

At least outwardly. 

At lunch, he sat at his normal table, with Lorne and Ronon. He reassigned Miller to the lab patrol. He did his workout with Teyla, spent several hours in his office doing paper work, had a meeting with Elizabeth, and generally tried to act as if nothing had changed. 

Still, when he walked down the hallways, though, the scientists stared at him. Kavanagh even went so far as to glare. He heard his name whispered under more than one breath, although admittedly it was fewer times than the day before. 

The most damning thing of all, though, was that during a perfectly legitimate trip down to the labs in the middle of the afternoon—a thought that he’d had about the Jumper systems that he thought Zelenka might be interested in—all of the scientists looked far too innocent. Their faces were smooth, their expressions bland, and they were unfailingly polite. 

He could almost hear the collective sigh of relief when he left the lab again. 

It took all of his willpower to not march right back in there, to stand in the middle of the room, and demand answers, because they were right there, right in that _very_ room, he was sure of it. But he also knew that it wouldn’t do any good. That they wouldn’t just _tell_ him. 

He took a deep breath, then another, and thought, _false sense of security_. He prided himself on being a patient man, he reminded himself, and really, he had all of the time in the world to solve this puzzle. 

All the time in the world.  


* * *

  
That night, he told Rodney as much. When they  
turned  
out the light, John turned over onto his stomach so that he could stare  
at Rodney. He said, "You were right last night, you know."

"Of course I was," Rodney said. Then, "Which part, exactly, was I right about?" 

"About me not needing to know. It’s not worth the brainpower to go up against all of you geniuses. It’s not worth it for me to try to figure it out." 

Rodney rolled over onto his side. His hand came to rest on John’s back, and his thumb began rubbing small circles against the bumps of John’s spine. 

"Thank you," Rodney said, but then his hand stilled, and when John, who had closed his eyes, opened them again, he saw that Rodney was giving him a narrowed gaze. "Or is this one of those reverse psychology things? Where you say you don’t care, that you don’t want to know, so that you can lull me into, into not watching my mouth and then I’ll end up spilling everything without meaning to?" 

"No!" John said, raising his head. "Would I do that? No, I _really_ give up. I really _don’t_ care. And really, I don’t _want_ to know." 

He thought he sounded genuine, honest, but maybe Rodney had come to know him too well, too, because his response was to pull the sheet up over John’s head, and then roll onto his side away from him. Again.  


* * *

  
Day five was essentially a repeat of day four,  
minus the trip to the lab and with an additional screening of _The_  
Hulk  
in Lorne’s room. At the end of it, when John settled into the bed next  
to the already sleeping Rodney, he decided that really, maybe he wasn’t  
that patient after all.  


* * *

  
So, on day six, he recruited help: Teyla, Ronon,  
Lorne.

He sat on a table in a very dusty room down an abandoned hallway, and said, "What we have here is a situation, because the scientists, they’re hiding something from the rest of us. I’m not saying that I want you to go snooping through their drawers, or anything, but just keep your eyes and ears open, keep aware, because eventually, they will slip up. And when they do, I want us to be there." 

"Yes, Sir," Lorne said. 

"Could you not just ask Dr. McKay?" Teyla asked. "Would he not tell you if it was something that we needed to concern ourselves with?" 

"He said it wasn’t," John answered, swinging his feet back and forth. "But this thing, whatever it is, it had Kavanagh _smiling_ and saying _it was a wonderful day_. That in and of itself is enough reason for concern, isn’t it?" 

Teyla nodded gravely, but her lips were twitching in the same way that Elizabeth’s had in the mess hall five days before. "Yes," she said, though. "I believe that I see what you mean." 

It had been a fabulous idea, recruiting help, he thought later that afternoon when Lorne came into his office and said, "I believe I have some information for you, Sir." He was standing on the other side of the desk, his shoulders back, completely at attention. 

John thought _lock_ at the door, and after he heard it snick, he said, "Sit, Major, then go ahead." 

Lorne sat. "It seems that there are a few mixing bowls missing from the kitchens, Sir. The first one—a small one—disappeared about three weeks ago, the other two—much, much larger—have been within the last two weeks." 

"That seems to fit the time frame," John said slowly, although _mixing bowls_? He knew for a fact that the scientists had enough glassware in their labs to stock three kitchens, so what could they want with bowls? He didn’t have to think about it while Lorne was sitting there, though, so he said, "Good work, Major. Thank you." 

Lorne saluted as he left. 

That evening, John came to the conclusion that recruiting help had been _less_ of a good idea when he walked down a hallway and found Ronon with his hand up one of the scientists’ shirts. She was small, blonde, and was giggling against Ronon’s neck, her hand wrapped around one of his dreads. He stood there gaping for a moment, then turned on his heel and left without interrupting them. 

He decided that the next day, he’d be having a nice, long chat with Ronon about seducing the enemy, or being seduced by the enemy, or perhaps about always letting your commander know when you had a conflict of interest that might compromise the mission _before_ you actually started the mission.  


* * *

  
That night, Rodney said, "I didn’t see you or any  
of your minions hanging around the labs today."

John yawned, turned the page of the latest _Sports Illustrated_ (only six months old) that had arrived on the Daedelus the week before. "I told you, I’ve given up. It’s not worth it." 

"Huh," Rodney said. "And I might believe that if Anderson hadn’t told me that Ronon had told her that you’d recruited help. He may be big, but she has his dreads wrapped around her little finger. You should know that." 

"I do now," John said, flipping to the next page of the magazine. 

Then Rodney did something that John didn’t expect. He reached out to touch John’s shoulder in a way that John recognized, a way that meant Rodney wanted John’s attention, but he wasn’t going to beg for it. 

It was in a way that John never had been good at refusing, so he glanced over. He almost expected to see a look of annoyance on Rodney’s face, but instead the look he saw was soft, almost painfully earnest. 

"I would totally tell you if I could, you know that, right?" Rodney asked. "I mean, not that it’s a big deal at all, but—I promised. It’s not my, it’s just not my thing to tell." 

"I know," John said. "It’s okay, Rodney, really." And it was, he realized. In that moment, right then, he really didn’t care. He raised his own hand to his shoulder, covering Rodney’s and holding it there. Rodney stared at their fingers for a few moments, then leaned over to kiss John. 

As John returned the kiss, smiled against Rodney’s lips, he forgot all about his magazine for awhile, even though he had been reading an article about football.  


* * *

  
Amazingly enough, his sudden realization that he  
really didn’t care lasted all the way through the seventh day and into  
the morning of the eighth. Of course, that could have been aided along  
by the fact that he’d woken up with a sleeping Rodney on his chest both  
days. Even after they were both was up and about, though, and John had  
been sitting in his office for hours on end, shuffling papers around on  
his desk, he realized that he _still_ didn’t care.

His resolve to gradually give up his quest—not for good, because he was _sure_ that he would find the answer at some point in the future, when he wasn’t looking for it—lasted until four o’clock of the eighth afternoon, because that was when he saw something he was pretty sure that he shouldn’t have. 

He was walking from his office to the gym, on his way to meet Ronon and Teyla for a workout, and if the pathway just _happened_ to lead him past the dining hall, it wasn’t his fault. It also wasn’t his fault that he happened to turn the corner by the kitchens just as Jameson, one of the newer scientists, happened to be exiting them, holding a bucket of something in his hands. 

The scientist was holding it tightly, John saw, close to his body, and John knew enough about attempted stealth to step back around the corner before the scientist could see him. He held his breath for a long moment, his back pressed against the wall behind him, until he heard footsteps fading into the distance. He waited another moment, two, and then he turned the corner again. 

As he stood there, John tried to tell himself that he didn’t care, he didn’t care, and he didn’t, but, he figured, it wouldn’t hurt to just duck into the kitchen and ask about whatever it was that Jameson had taken with him. Really, he figured, it was his duty, and even if he wasn’t _actively_ trying to solve the mystery of the smiling scientists anymore, eventually if he got enough clues—something besides _mixing bowls_ —he’d be able to figure it out. One day, the answer would just come. 

With that thought in mind, he walked down the hallway and into the kitchen, in search of some answers. 

When he came out again, though, he was even more confused. After all, what could Jameson want with a big bucket of _ice_?  


* * *

  
That night, as they were lying in bed, John said,  
"You know, you might want to encourage your scientists to get a bit of  
stealth training, too."

Rodney went still beside him. Before he could speak, though, John continued: "I mean, what could you all want with a big bucket of _ice_?" 

"Ice," Rodney repeated, his voice just a _bit_ strangled. 

"All I’ve got to say is that you’re lucky I gave up on my quest to solve this mystery, or else that might have really piqued my interest," John said, smiling up into the darkness. "I mean, ice and big mixing bowls coupled with blissful expressions on the scientists’ faces. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation just lying around somewhere, but given just those clues, the brain could go some pretty interesting places." 

He paused for a moment, letting Rodney absorb his words, then continued: "Of course, I’m not looking into it anymore. I just thought you might want to have a word with some people. Let them know they aren’t being as sneaky as they think they’re being." 

"Mixing bowls," Rodney said finally, faintly, staring very intently up at the ceiling. Then, " _Don’t worry, I will._ "  


* * *

  
On the ninth day, all of the pieces began to fall  
into place.

It started just before lunch, when Elizabeth came into his office, sat down in his chair, and said, "Okay, what do you know?" 

This time, it was his turn to blink at her. "What do you mean, what do I know?" 

"You aren’t the only one to have noticed that the science team seems to be in a perpetual good mood these days," she said. "And that’s not something that I should be complaining about, I know, but Tyler asked me today if we were on the brink of some new discovery. Like, say, being able to _recharge the ZPM_. I had to say that I didn’t know anything about it. I don’t like saying ‘I don’t know,’ John. Not when it concerns my command." 

"Rodney assures me that it’s nothing we need to worry about," John said. "Also, I’m pretty sure he’s right, because whatever it is, it involves mixing bowls and ice." 

Elizabeth went back to the blinking. "Mixing bowls? Ice?" 

John nodded. "I’ve got confirmation with that. I just can’t think of what they’d be doing with it that would put those, those _smiles_ on their faces." He grinned. "Quite frankly, I’m not sure I _want_ to know anymore." He paused, shook his head. "I’ve stopped asking questions, just so you know. I stopped a few days ago. Rodney was getting a little bit _too_ annoyed with me." 

She nodded, giving him a look that was an unspoken ‘I see.’ She said, "I just can’t help wondering what it is that they’re doing. This has gone on too long to be an in joke, and I— I keep trying to think of things that they could be making, but I—" She shook her head, then, and said, "Rodney _would_ tell us if there was a cause for concern, right?" 

"He would," John said, and he knew Rodney well enough to know that that was the truth. "He told me that there was nothing to worry about—more than once, in fact—and I believe him. The only thing I can think of is that they’ve got some sort of happy juice brewing—it won’t be another still; you can’t keep the moonshine hidden from soldiers, after all—and they’re just enjoying it for now. Soon enough, it’ll grow old, or they’re run out of ingredients—provided it requires more than ice and bowls—and the world will go back to normal." 

"Normal," Elizabeth said. She nodded decisively, then started to sit up, before stopping again, staring at John, and pouting slightly. "But what if I want some of the happy juice, too?" 

"I know," he said, sighing pathetically. "But they really, really don’t seem to be inclined to share." 

For a few hours, John thought that that would be the end of it, but when he returned from a meeting with Lorne, he found Miller hovering outside of his office. The young Lieutenant saluted him as he came down the hallway and said, "Do you have a free minute, Sir?" 

"Sure," John said, gesturing for the soldier to enter his office. Miller stood by John’s desk, nervously shifting from foot to foot until John told him to sit, which he did as quickly as possible. 

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" Miller asked, and at John’s nod, he said, "Major Lorne, he told me that you thought something funny might be going on in the labs, and he told me to tell you if I noticed anything suspicious." 

"And I take it that you noticed something suspicious?" 

Miller nodded. "Yes sir. This morning, as I was doing my normal patrol down the hallway, I heard this sort of grinding sound, like a tumbler." 

"A tumbler?" 

"Like one of those rock tumblers," Miller said. "My grandpa used to have one; we’d find old rocks on the beach when I was a kid, and then we’d put them in the tumbler and polish them right up." 

"Uh huh," John said. Ice, mixing bowls, tumbler. He felt like things should be becoming clear, but he was also pretty sure that he was missing a large part of the puzzle. The key piece, the one that would make everything else fall into place and become obvious. A ‘d’oh, why didn’t I see that before?’ sort of thing. 

"It wasn’t quite the same sound as that," Miller added quickly. "Not nearly as loud, but it was a similar sound. And not like any piece of Ancient technology that I’ve ever heard, Sir. They all run smooth and this, well, didn’t." 

John nodded again. Then he smiled at Miller and said, "Thank you, Lieutenant. This information has been most enlightening." 

Miller stood up from his chair, and headed back towards the door, but before it opened, he stopped. "Sir, one more thing. Is it just me, or have the scientists seemed to be happier recently?" 

That made John laugh. "It’s not just you, Lieutenant." 

"Okay," Miller said, and then he was gone. 

And that should have been enough for one day, John thought, because already, that was more than he’d gotten in the previous eight days combined. Except that, as the saying went, when it rained it poured, because late that afternoon, as he and Teyla were practicing with the sticks, she knocked his legs out from under him, held the sticks at his throat, and said, "I believe that I have some information for you, Colonel." 

"Oh really?" he gasped. 

"I do not know if this relates to your investigation of the scientists at all, but as I was walking back to my rooms last night, I passed Drs. Simpson and Gustafson." 

"Uh huh," John said, extending his hand so that she could help him up. "Were they carrying ice, mixing bowls, or something that isn’t a rock tumbler?" At her confused look, he said, "It’s a machine, and we use it to polish stones, and… never mind." 

"I see," Teyla said, as she grabbed his hand, hauled him to his feet, and then gracefully fell into her default fighting stance, the sticks moving in loose circles in front of her body. John started circling her, keeping his own sticks at the ready. 

"No," she said after a moment, "I did not see them with any of those things. What I did see them with, though, were little brown paper packets, with brightly colored circles covering the fronts of them." 

On the ‘them’ she lashed out, but John actually managed to block her stick this time as it curved towards his legs. They started circling again. 

"But that is not all," she continued. "I believe that I heard them mention something called chocolate? But when they saw me, they did not talk of it anymore. And Dr. Gustafson seemed to be trying to hide the packets in the front of her shirt. Do you think that this relates to your mystery?" 

"Yes," John said, smiling widely as he swung his stick forward, trying his own attack. "I believe it does." 

"Good," Teyla said, as she met him blow for blow, before managing to work in an extra lunge-swipe that managed to knock his legs out from under him again. 

"Oof," he said.  


* * *

  
That night, John made sure to be in their room  
when Rodney arrived. He’d been planning on saying something along the  
lines  
of, ‘so, rock tumblers and chocolate, McKay? I _really_ don’t  
think  
I want to know,’ but he didn’t get a chance, because when Rodney came  
in,  
though, he was practically thrumming. His smile was so wide that John  
couldn’t  
help but grin helplessly back.

"Good day?" he asked, and Rodney nodded. Smiled even more widely, relaxed and languid. "Yes, you could say that," he said. "Yes, it was a good day." 

He didn’t come over to the chair that John was sitting in, though. Didn’t sit down and start telling John all about it. Instead, he went to the bathroom, shut the door, and John could hear him brushing his teeth. And that was different, too, because Rodney always brushed his teeth right before he went to bed, and they weren’t nearly there yet; it was still early, too early— 

And suddenly, John had an idea. 

A glorious idea. 

An idea that he thought might actually work, because as he listened to the sound of the scrubbing toothbrush and the running water, the spitting, he was pretty sure that the answer to all of his questions over the past week and a half was right there, waiting for him. It really could actually work, he thought. 

The best thing about it, though, was that there was no preparation needed. He stayed in his chair, perhaps spreading his legs a bit farther, and then when Rodney came out of the bathroom, he held out his hand and said, "Come over here." 

Rodney came. He took John’s hand, didn’t resist when John pulled him down for a kiss, didn’t keep his mouth closed when John licked at his lips, his teeth, his tongue. John tasted chalky mint, but he knew what to look for now, knew that the taste had to be there somewhere, and finally he found it. Chocolate, diffused. Milky, almost. Cool. It reminded him of many a hot summer day, and even a few cool winter ones. 

He remembered, thought, and suddenly all of the pieces clicked into place. 

He pulled back, panting slightly, and leaned his forehead against Rodney’s. Said, "Rodney, where did you get the ice cream?" 

Rodney froze, pulled back as if he’d been slapped, or maybe burned, and started backing towards the doorway. He was rubbing a hand across his mouth, as if he could wipe away what John already knew. 

"I—" Rodney started, and then his chin dropped to his chest. "I wanted to tell you—I told you that I wanted to tell you, didn’t I? But they didn’t even tell _me_ until Zelenka found them. He raised holy hell, and I came to investigate, and, and it was Jameson, really." 

"I know," John said. 

"He devised away to make a dry ice cream mix, smuggled it in with his luggage. Then, here, he built the mixer, and all we had to do was bring the ice, the bowls—" 

"The chocolate," John said, and Rodney looked up at him sharply. 

"How did you--?" 

"I have my sources," John answered, standing up from his chair and starting towards Rodney. "You should know that." 

"Of course, of course," Rodney said. He leaned against John’s side when John dropped an arm over his shoulders, didn’t protest when they started towards the door. Didn’t stop again until they were at the door, and then he looked at John. "Where are we going?" 

"Back to the labs," John said sweetly. "And then we’re going to hand deliver the rest of the ice cream to the kitchen, where all of Atlantis can partake of Jameson’s spoils." 

"But, but—" Rodney started, his eyes wide, bordering on devastated. "They’re going to _kill_ me, John. You don’t want me to be massacred by my own staff, do you? Because that’s what’s going to happen!" Rodney shuddered. 

"Let me put it this way," John said. " _I_ found out and others will too, because people are suspicious, Rodney. People are asking Elizabeth what’s going on, they’re asking me, and sooner rather than later, the truth will come to light. You know it’s true." 

Rodney made a miserable noise in the back of his throat. 

"Let me ask you this," John continued. "Would you rather be remembered as the science team that hid _ice cream_ from the rest of the expedition, hoarding it all for themselves? Or, would you rather have people think of you as the ones who divided their spoils with the rest of their beloved city-mates, thus earning undying love and admiration for sharing what they so easily could have kept hidden?" 

Rodney closed his eyes. Said, "It doesn’t really matter, does it? Either way, I’m dead." 

"I’ll do everything I can to protect you," John said, and together they walked out of the room.  


* * *

  
The tenth day, at dinner, they had ice cream for  
dessert. M&M, vanilla, mixed Athosian nut. It was a good day in  
Atlantis,  
and as John licked his spoon, watched everyone around him licking their  
own spoons, he could practically see morale climbing ever-higher. Well,  
among the non-science personnel, anyway.

The science personnel were looking glum. And angry—Simpson and Kavanagh had been glaring at him for the past ten minutes. 

"Actually, Colonel," Rodney said as he scraped the bottom of his own bowl with his spoon, "I think that maybe I’m going to have to be the one protecting you. You’re lucky, you know, that I’m rather attached to you, or you might have to worry about whether the rest of us would ever find your body." He paused, looking down at his empty dish sadly. "At this point in time, though, I’m almost wondering if it wouldn’t be worth it to let them do whatever they want to you. That, at least, might give me a shot at getting back in their good graces." 

"I know I’m a lucky, lucky man," John said softly, reaching out to tap the back of Rodney’s hand with the bowl of is spoon. Then he leaned forward. "And I think I know of a way to make it up to you." 

"This?" Rodney asked, raising an eyebrow. He tapped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon. "Never. This was the last of it, Colonel. No more ingredients. We were spacing it out in the lab, trying to limit ourselves to a new batch every few days, small scoops, that sort of thing, but now? Gone." 

"Not quite," John whispered. 

Rodney blinked at him, narrowed his eyes, but John could see a flicker of hope there, where there hadn’t been one only moments before. "Are you saying what I think you’re saying?" he asked. 

"I’m saying that there’s an advantage to being the one overseeing the confiscation of the contraband," John said. "And also, you might want to bring a spoon back to our room tonight." 

He smiled at the look of sudden and utter bliss on Rodney’s face.  


* * *

  
That night, Rodney forgave him.

End


End file.
